


The Crew of the Damned

by darkandstormyslash



Category: Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Drama, Fluff, Gen, Occasional angst, Slice of Life, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-29 22:26:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10145945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: A selection of general, safe for work (or as safe as James Delaney can ever be) vignettes about life on the Ship of the Damned after it sails off at the end of Season 1. I just want to write about these guys, and explore all the relationships they have with each other, and all their thoughts and personal histories. Chapter summaries and/or warnings at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. House Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter One: Lorna tries to set up a game of cards, and Godfrey gets a bit homesick.

“House rules.” Lorna says, shuffling the deck and looking around the boat. And even though the situation couldn’t be more different, Godfrey suddenly finds himself transported back with a sharp pang of nostalgia to the Molly House. To long evenings sitting around a table that didn’t roll with the waves, in the company of familiar faces and close friends. Kitty Fisher, slender and flirty, the only one of them that could really pull off a face-full of makeup, sitting next to portly Nan, who’d be pulling her dress up and fanning vigorously to stop the sweat. And ruling the table would be Lydia; in her deep blue dress and lacquered nails, shuffling the deck and smirking around at them all.

“House rules. That means no, _no_ cheating ladies.” She’d give a particularly pointed look at Kitty, who would simper and giggle and cheat outrageously anyway, because they all did.

In the Molly House he’d always felt at ease laughing with the rest. Sometimes joining in the games that grew wilder and sillier as the nights drew later, sometimes watching with a glass of wine, or listening to Lydia gossiping.

“Oh you should’ve been here, Goddy, back in the days, the _real_ days. I mean this isn’t it.” She gave a dismissive wave that seemed to take in most of the room, but most especially Nan bouncing on top of a chortling Peer of the Realm, waving a feather scarf in his face and hooting with laughter. “All these … rich self-important …” her voice gave out and instead he got a rather unladylike flick of the wrist, the universal symbol for ‘wanker’, “You should’ve been here before the King went mad. Molly houses across all of London, both sides of the river, and rough trade as far as the eye could see.” A smirk particularly in his direction, “You’d have loved it Goddy. The worlds falling apart now; revolution in France, war in America, they’ve thrown out the King.” Lydia’s eyes turn on him and even with makeup obscuring her face she looks old and tired. “You’ve got to have a King, Goddy, I mean I know it’s not perfect, but if you don’t have a King, what do you have? Just a bunch of _men_ running around like chickens in a barnyard, with no idea what to do.”

Well he’s here now. On a boat, renouncing King and Crown and Company. And true enough, Godfrey has no idea what to do.

Lorna shuffles the cards, cutting them down the middle, and then dealing left. Atticus frowns, his eyes meet Godfrey’s and Godfrey can tell they’re both thinking the same thing: dealing left? Godfrey’s always dealt right for Loo.

“What exactly _are_ house rules?” Atticus rumbles.

It seems Loo is played differently in the Theatre to the Molly House, which surprises Godfrey as he’s pretty sure there’s a fair amount of overlap. Any profession which allows men to dress as something they’re not tends to attract men like him, he knows. “Back in the Olden Days.” Nan had told him once, waving a plump hand at the brandy until Godfrey poured it, “They used to only have men on stage. Did you know that, Goddy?”

Yes, his education had been classical enough to pick that particular detail up. Education had been like that, he remembered, vast swathes of comfortable boringness interspersed with small tantalising details that he’d never been brave enough to question.

“All boys, Goddy.” Nan gives Kitty a pinch until she squeals, “Boys in dresses, cinched in _tight,”_ another little pinch, and Kitty gives an affectionate smack back with her fan, “Tight at the waist. All the lady’s parts.” She pauses for Kitty to snigger, “All played by men. All the romantic speeches, all the steamy little love scenes, all pretty little boys in dresses.”

Lorna finishes listing the rules, and Godfrey tries to focus back on the game. He tries to feel the comfortable familiarity of the Molly House, to see the people around him as fellow misfits and unfortunates, but there’s nothing to hide the fact that he’s the only man here wearing a dress. His hair is growing out now, a detail that makes him absurdly happy, so he can at least forgo the wig, but nothing hides the fact that Pearl and Lorna are so beautifully and wonderfully _female_ and he, by clear comparison, is most definitely not.

He picks up his cards. No matter what the rules are, it’s a bad hand. He wishes he could’ve had a chance to say goodbye to everyone; to give Kitty one last hug, to give Lydia his abject thanks for all the times she’s watched out for him, and supported him, and made him laugh over the years. He’ll never see them again, and the Molly House will never be quite the same again. After a raid it’ll have to move, to relocate, and to go even further underground as England digs in its heels against the changing world outside.

Opposite him Atticus is looking poker faced, which means he does have a good hand. Pearl is looking smug, which means she thinks she does. Cholmondeley is next to him, his hand and face still heavily bandaged, so Robert is holding his cards. Cholmondeley whispers low and gentle to Robert, explaining the cards and explaining the rules, and Godfrey pretends not to overhear. He feels a stab of guilt for worrying about his appearance when Cholmondeley’s lost the skin on an entire half of his body.

He discards his hand, and Lorna’s eyes give a flicker of annoyance, “Not until your turn, Godd.” Atticus changes a card and she glares at him, “Were none of you listening!”

“House rules.” Atticus rolls his eyes. After a few rounds it becomes clear that there’s distinctly more overlap between Molly House rules and Dockside rules (Godfrey doesn’t say anything, but he has a feeling that Lydia probably has more than a little to do with that) and that Godfrey and Atticus have been playing almost a different game all together. And when Pearl lays down a full set of diamonds and announces that she’s been ‘collecting’ them, Lorna throws her hands in the air.

“I give up. Everyone’s playing their own game.”

Prompted by Cholmondeley, Robert lays down a winning hand.


	2. New Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert is learning how to read and write. There are plenty of the crew willing to help him learn. But he still doesn't seem to be able to talk to his father.

Robert is learning how to write. With a stub of a pencil and the back pages of Lorna’s Shakespeare he carefully traces his way around unfamiliar letters, applying himself to the task with a devoted sort of single-mindedness that he’s not had the chance to apply much in his life.

He certainly has enough teachers. If this is a boat full of damned souls, Cholmondeley remarks, it’s a very _literary_ bunch of damned souls. Lorna, Godfrey, Atticus and Cholmondeley all take their turns at teaching him, and Robert benefits from the different styles. Lessons with Lorna involve reading, inching his way word by word through plays not designed for early readers. Godfrey has pulled enough paper together for him to write a diary, and they carefully jot down the events of each day in the rapidly expanding list of words that Robert can spell. Atticus lets the boy help him with his book, labeling parts of animals or geographical features in far off lands that seem words away from the mill near London where he grew up.

But it’s Cholmondeley’s lessons he loves the most. The science and natural philosophy; the works of Newton, Paracelsus and Boyle. The scientific principles and reasoning behind how Cholmondeley can take three pieces of dry fine powder and turn them into exploding fire. “If your time with me has taught you anything.” Cholmondeley says, wincing a little as he changes the bandages on his hand, “It should be that there is no substance so inert that it can’t be set alight if the right pressures and substances are added.”

Robert sometimes wishes he could have a lesson or two from his father. He isn’t sure how he feels about Delaney; the man who unwillingly put him into the world, then one day reappeared to drag him out of it into an even madder one. Delaney doesn’t scare him, although he knows he should be afraid of him somehow he isn’t. He wasn’t afraid of the vats of gunpowder, the endless days of stirring, the constant threat of death, and somehow he isn’t afraid of Delaney.

He tells Cholmondeley, who raises his one remaining eyebrow and gives him what seems to be a worried look. “You should’ve been scared of the gunpowder. I was pissing myself. And you should be scared of Delaney. I will always be scared of Delaney. I am a chemist, and I will spend my life being scared of highly volatile substances that blow up in your face at the slightest movement.”

Robert doesn’t see how he can be afraid. The gunpowder wasn’t dangerous until, with one half-breath, it would suddenly become deadly. How can he be afraid of that, when there’s no power he has to stop it? He might as well be afraid of the earth cracking, or the sun exploding. He tries to explain further, relieved when Cholmondeley doesn’t dismiss him, but instead listens intently as he speaks.

“Have you told James – your father – have you told him you’re not afraid of him?”

“No.” He’s barely spoken to the man. It isn’t an awkward silence, but both of them have nothing to say. There can be no small talk between them, not with all the big talk left unsaid, and neither of them are ready to plunge into that.

“Good. I wouldn’t tell him.”

He doesn’t understand much of the Shakespeare stories that Lorna reads him. They seem to exist in a world he has never encountered; references to Kings and Fools and far-off countries seem as far out of his frame of reference as Atticus’s elephants and crocodiles. But he likes sitting next to her as she reads, smelling the perfume and silks that she wears. He’s never asked her, but part of him wonders whether now she is his mother. Robert thinks he would rather like that.

“O wonder!” Lorna reads aloud, her fingers tracing over the small printed text. Robert knows he should be following the words, but the days are growing warmer now and they’re sitting out on the deck. The sun is at its height and he can see his father standing at the front of the ship, Atticus to his left, pointing at the horizon. Godfrey and Pearl are lying on the deck next to them, faces towards the sun, while Cholmondeley reads in the largest patch of shade he can find, grumbling about the sun making his scars ache. “How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, that has such people in it.”

The words wash over him, with the warming sun, and Lorna gently presses a hand into his side. “Do you want to stop for a bit, Rob?”

He shakes his head, and turns back to the text. Hesitantly, he moves his finger back to the beginning of the speech, “O… O w-won-dar.”

“O wonder.” Lorna murmurs back.

“How many good – goodly creatures…” Robert continues, face creased into a frown.

“Keep your own hair.” Pearl prattles away to Godfrey, “Now you can grow it out you should. And you can’t pull off blond Goddy, honestly not everyone can pull off blond.”

“…are there here.” Three simple words, and Robert feels the meaning in the letters peeling back, enticing him into a world he never thought he’d ever be close to. “How b-b-bee-aa-uuu.”

“Beauteous.” Lorna gives him, with a smile, “Beauteous mankind is.”

“I think your hair looks very nice Godfrey.” Cholmondeley murmurs lazily. “Of all the people on this boat who still _have_ hair…”

“O bra-brave new world…” Robert’s fingers drift over the letters, his voice growing a little more certain. “That has…”

He pauses as a shadow falls across the page, looking up as James Delaney is suddenly there. The idle conversation around him pauses, and then James’s hand briefly pats on his shoulder, and James looks down at where his finger is resting on the page.

“Brave new world.” James mutters, and the hand pats his shoulder again. “O brave new world, that has _such people_ in it.” The words change in his mouth, instead of the optimistic enthusiasm of the play they seem to speak of something else; something twisted and bitter. A world thought to be beautiful, discovered to be treacherous.

“I had a sort of auburn one…” Godfrey gently inserts into the silence, drawing Pearl and Cholmondeley away from the awkward little Delaney tableau, “That suited me. With a darker dress it suited me.”

Delaney squints down at him, and Robert gets the sense that the man is a little lost for words. “She teaching you to read?” He says at last, with a semi-apologetic glance at Lorna for referring to her simply as ‘she’.

“They all are.” Robert answers, looking back at him with an unwavering gaze. Why should he be afraid of James Delaney?

There’s silence, and then a small grunt. “Good.”

“Will I still be of use to you?” Robert says carefully, once he’s established that the background conversation has resumed, “If I can read your letters?”

James Delaney pauses, and Robert feels a hundred answers echoing around in that silence. _Never stop stirring. Never stop moving. Never sleep, never falter._ Finally he gets another pat on his shoulder and James bends lower to speak quietly into his ear. “If you learn to read, you will be of more use to me than you can possibly imagine.”

James disappears below. Atticus raises his eyebrows at them both and gives Lorna an apologetic grin, “He’s a bit cranky today.”

“He’s a bit cranky every day.” Lorna responds dryly.

“He’s my father.” Robert says, and he says it so quietly that part of him wonders if he was thinking it rather than saying it. But when he glances as Cholmondeley, he sees Cholmondeley looking straight back at him, and he knows that Cholmondeley heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lorna is reading Miranda's soliloquy from The Tempest. It's exactly as symbolic as you want it to be, depending on how much you know the plot of The Tempest. Or indeed how much you know about Aldous Huxley :p


	3. Somnambulist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bad dreams follow James Delaney from London.
> 
> Warning for nudity.

The dreams he had in London were dark; twisted and bitter and rooted down in his family and past. London was old, older than sin and twice as wicked, and it dragged his dreams back through the past, back down the ages, back to his childhood, his mother and the ancient sins of history.

The dreams that haunt him now are different, unsettled and uncertain. He sees himself looking out across the Thames, feels the jerk under his feet, like missing the bottom step of a staircase, feels the rush that Zilpha must have felt, of air and then of water. It's dragging him back, this dream, even as he tries to claw his way out to freedom. Rushing up through the water, up to the surface, a hacking gasping desperate breath.

And then he's back in London, back at the hospital, and the damp disease-ridden layer of Dumbarton. There are clothes hanging, the drip, drip of water as the colours run. Silks and cottons are suddenly tangled around his face, wrapping in front of him. James tears them away, pushes forward, shoulders through a door, and he can't  _breath_ anymore, he needs to get back in the water, he needs, he needs -

He blinks as his mind drags its way up from sleep, away from the dream and away from the choking pull of past deeds. He's not at Dumbarton's hospital room, he's not in the Thames with his sister, he's on a boat, heading to light and freedom.

He's in the ladies quarters.

His eyes take a final blink, staring unwillingly into reality to notice that he's pulled the hanging clothes and drying laundry away from the door and barged his way into the separate cabin that the women aboard have claimed for themselves. His fingers are wrapped around something ribboned and now torn. Pearl, Godfrey, and Lorna are staring at him from their bunks, with three almost identical looks of alarm. 

It takes a while for his mind to figure out just why they're staring. The weather is warmer as they sail down south, and clothing is cloying and restrictive in the close air of the cabins. 

James Delaney is naked.

The ladies aren't clothed much better. Whatever Godfrey's wearing isn't visible, but the fact that his blanket is now pulled up tight around his neck suggests he doesn't consider it suitable for viewing. Pearl is topless, he can see the flush press of her breasts against the edge of the blanket. Lorna's wearing a little slip-type item that seems barely serviceable as an undergarment. James isn't embarrassed, he's not sure he ever has been in his life, but with his mind still operating on several realities at once he finds himself struck dumb, unsure of how to deal with the situation, to convey in as few words as possible the steps that have lead him to here; naked and looming in an area of the ship reserved exclusively for the few women on it.

Lorna speaks first, in a voice polite enough to grace the King's court, "Can we help you, Mister Delaney?"

James's finger stabs out towards the three of them, all accusatory at their shocked glances, "You've seen men before," The finger stabs an extra time in Godfrey's direction, " _You've_ seen  _me_ before."

Godfrey gives a small and desperate nod, clearly not trusting himself to speak. Pearl tugs her blanket up and relaxes a little, still watching him warily, "You just startled us, that's all, bursting in like that."

He won't say sorry. There is nothing to be sorry for. 

"Do you need anything James?" Lorna sounds gentler now, like the mother she technically is. James shakes his head, gathering together the dignity he still retains and backs his way towards the door. 

"Bad dreams." He offers by way of explanation. Pearl is looking dubious and he realises she's probably heard similarly unbelievable explanations in her time. He hauls himself back to a certain level of respectability and gives them a nod. "Won't happen again. Ladies..."

He leaves the cabin, the forced open door swinging awkwardly shut behind him. There's no way he can fix it now, so he flings the fallen laundry over the lock. They won't be in danger and he's pretty sure at least two of them sleep with a knife under the pillow.

In the ladies cabin there are a few minutes of silence and then Godfrey lets out a strangled sounding, "Oh God..."

That's all it takes to set all three of them off. James stumps his way back to his cabin to the accompaniment of muffled laughter and gasped giggles. He tosses and turns in the hammock, finally drifting back off to sleep just as the sun rises.

In the morning Lorna sits by the door and tells the others not to disturb him. And James Delaney dreams of floating face-up on a calm and empty sea, his face turned towards the light of the moon.


	4. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cholmondeley makes his way back to consciousness and health. Two short sketches.

At first the pain is simply a way of life; searing, continuous and unrepentant. Cholmondeley is pulled through it unwillingly and continuously, like a sack dragged through mud, each fraying nerve of his body begging to die. He doesn’t want to be dead, not really, but he does want it to stop; the throbbing sting in his head that tears down his body through his shoulder and chest and into his hand; where the stinging becomes a thousand raw nerve ends.

Most of the time he’s delirious, and he’s almost thankful he can’t remember it. Sometimes he knows he’s on a boat, other times he thinks he’s in a coffin shuddering its way to the back rotten earth. He sees flickers of faces he remembers; his mother, Maria, Lorna, women and men and sins, all sitting watching him. A dark-haired lady wipes his face. James Delaney prods his wounds. The past swells up inside him and burns the back of his throat like bile, rising up and into the future.

He realises, as the itching ache turns into a burning heat, that some part of him has become infected.

The first time he properly opens his eyes, with the fever dissipating and the surroundings clear in his mind, he sees Robert staring back at him. He’s in a bunk, with creaking nautical sounds above and a few distant voices. His head feels muggy and uncertain. The pain is still there, but it’s almost at a level that he feels he can live with.

“Robert?”

Robert moves instantly, picking up a cup of water and holding it to his lips. Cholmondeley isn’t completely convinced that he wants water, but he takes a sip anyway to give himself time to think. It tastes warm and fetid on his tongue.

When he lays back, he feels certain enough to ask, “Are we on a boat?”

Robert nods.

“Delaney’s boat?”

Another nod. Robert has never been very talkative, and looking at the boy Cholmondeley feels a sudden stab of relief that he’s still alive. It’s a strange feeling, the thought of living _for_ someone. He’s only felt it once before, and the feeling is like an unfamiliar memory stirring through him. The thought is clear and unambiguous in his head: he does not want Robert to be left alone.

He stares at the creaking wood above his head and asks “Do you know where Delaney’s boat is headed?”

Robert’s brow creases a little, Cholmondeley can tell he is trying to remember something he’s heard but not understood. “The … the Azores.” Robert clearly has no idea what the Azores might be.

“The Azores.” Cholmondeley’s face tries to frown, but he no longer seems to possess all the appropriate muscles and it makes his eye itch. He’s not sure the destination makes any sense, but then nothing James Delaney has ever done has made sense to him. His job is to jump when James Delaney requests or, more accurately, to make things explode when James Delaney has decided that they should become shrapnel.

Nevertheless, this makes less sense than normal, and the pain sparks him into bitterness. “Why the _fuck_ are we headed to the Azores?”

“The Americans.” Robert answers, and then in case it helps “Collonade.”

Robert does not talk much, but he listens. Oh, he listens.

“James Delaney.” Cholmondeley says to the ceiling, “Is the man who sells gunpowder. And I am the man who makes gunpowder for James Delaney to sell. And the Americans will only stop needing gunpowder when they find something more deadly to kill each other with.”

Robert’s eyes look wary, as if he’s worried that Cholmondeley is rambling again, but Cholmondeley’s mind feels wonderfully clear and open. The disease is lifting, leaving him behind in his body. It might not be as good a body as it once was, but Cholmondeley is suddenly very, very grateful that there’s enough of it left for him to stay inside.

“Do you want me to get Mrs. Delaney?” Robert asks uncertainly. Cholmondeley gives a shudder and his eyes close briefly. His hand gropes out over the edge of the bunk and Robert takes it.

“No.” Cholmondeley tries shaking his head but the movement is too much and his eyes close again. The pain is still fucking _there_ lurking at the edges of his consciousness. It’s exhausting just to exist. “Not until, not until I’m ready.”

The next sentence comes out a little more pleading than he’d like, “Can … could you stay here, just for, just for a bit more?”

Robert nods, even though Cholmondeley’s eyes are closed now. He holds onto Cholmondeley’s hand until the man drifts back into sleep.

\---

He finds out later that the woman he’d thought was Maria is actually a man called Godfrey, and then later on that the man called Godfrey is possibly now a woman going by “Goddy” until she finds a better name. He’s not entirely sure he can get his head around it, but it makes as much sense as anything else going on around James Delaney. Once Cholmondeley gets to know his way around all the new arrivals on the ship he finds he rather enjoys Goddy’s company. The two of them share a background; with similar educations, similar experiences, and similar social circles of the grubbier areas of London not to mention the posher parts that want to appear at least momentarily grubby for cheap thrills.

“I think I tried laughing gas once.” Goddy muses. “Of course the state we were all in it could’ve just been normal air he was charging us half a shilling to breathe.”

They even know some of the same couples. Or rather, there are a few women Cholmondeley knows that Goddy knows the husbands of.

“Between the two of us.” Cholmondeley points out, wincing as Goddy winds a fresh bandage around the dressing on his shoulder, “We were probably responsible for holding together half the unhappy marriages in London.”

“Either that or breaking them apart.” Goddy gives a smile, and Cholmondeley finds he rather likes it when she smiles. Lorna has offered to help with his dressings but the thought of her seeing the wreck his body has become makes Cholmondeley shudder. He feels like a monster now, a misshapen Caliban, and as a result he’s showing Goddy how to do his dressings, tie his bandages and care for his wounds. Goddy carefully tucks the end of the bandage under and asks, “Is that … is that tied in alright?”

Cholmondeley checks it with his good hand, then nods. “Perfect. No. All of mine were married. A woman with a healthy husband and an active lover has no need for an expensive and scandalous divorce. I saw it as a public service. A duty.”

“I’m not sure a Molly House could ever be described as a service…” Goddy murmurs, and Cholmondeley can see that talking about it is upsetting. He wants to change the subject, to show an old flash of gallantry, but Goddy is already turning away, packaging up the bandages and then gently patting at his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?”

It still does, and Cholmondeley feels that it always will. He manages a smile with the half of his face that still moves, “No. It’s much better now. Thank you”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Godfrey's pronouns: basically so far the lad has been a 'he' as a man and probably a 'she' while at the Molly House in drag. Within the conventions of the time Godfrey and probably James as well still think of him as a 'he'. But as Cholmondeley has only known him as a 'she', and connects him with Maria, and other women. So maybe in Cholmondeley's mind he's a lady. Who knows. We shall find out exactly what Godfrey's gone for when season 2 starts! Until then expect a few switches as the boat sails on, and the crew all get used to themselves and each other.


	5. Ship's Cook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the Ship of the Damned, who does the cooking?
> 
> In terms of timeline, this chapter is probably the earliest. It happens probably a day after they've set off, which is why Lorna and Cholmondeley are still ill, Pearl doesn't know anyone, and Godfrey is struggling with his new identity.

Pearl gets sent down to the galley to stare in helpless uncertainty at all the neatly packaged food. She can shuck oysters, that’s about it, any more complex food preparation has never been required. One of the older ladies, her time as a prostitute long past, had cooked a big pot for all of them to eat whenever there was time. Sometimes men had left food and favours, more often they’d left inadequate amounts of money and no time for preparing meals.

She fetches Godfrey, who joins her with a similar expression. He’s used to seeing lists of items for long-distance voyages, he knows exactly how much food a boat this size would be expected to carry. What he doesn’t know is quite what to do with any of it.

“You must’ve fed yourself.” Pearl says, irritated at him for being as useless as she is.

“There was a pie shop…” Godfrey says, “And sometimes my landlady...”

Pearl’s opinion of bachelors sinks a little lower.

“Do you think when Mrs Delaney is better…” Godfrey says a little hesitantly, and then jumps as James suddenly looms behind them, big and unexpected.

“Mrs Delaney.” James says in a rumbling growl, “Is not to touch or attempt to prepare any of the foodstuffs.”

Pearl is still a bit too nervous to speak to James, but Godfrey isn’t, “James, how do we – I mean, I can’t cook and–“

James Delaney gives the shrug of a man faced with a problem that isn’t his and wanders off again.

“Can we light a fire?” Pearl looks around the galley, “I mean the boat is made of wood. Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Most of it should already be cooked.” Godfrey at least knows that much. Fresh meat spoils on long journeys. They can’t cook anything but they should at least be able to provide a meal that won’t kill everyone. “There should be cured things, dried things, and … biscuit things.”

Pearl brightens up at the mention of biscuits and Godfrey shakes his head.

“No. Ships biscuits. They’re very different.”

* * *

Atticus looks up and then frowns as Pearl timorously hands him a bowl containing a small piece of dried fish and an even smaller piece of dried biscuit, “What’s this?”

“Um … lunch.”

Atticus gently pokes at the fish and then looks up at Pearl, “This isn’t lunch, love. This is what you start off with before you make the lunch. Can you not cook?”

She shakes her head. Atticus glances across at Godfrey, “Can _he_ not?”

Another shake. Pearl isn’t afraid of Atticus, but she needs him to help her. In the absence of any prior knowledge about him she has decided that being a Damsel in Distress is the best way to achieve that.

Atticus scowls at Godfrey, “What’s the use of him them?”

Pearl does like Godfrey, but she is also hungry. She shrugs one shoulder and looks up at Atticus timidly, “I’m awfully sorry…”

Atticus swears under his breath and stands up, “Alright, where’s the galley. Don’t worry love, it’s not your, not your occupation, is it? You’ve a different set of skills.”

Pearl wonders if Atticus is hinting he wants to sleep with her or that he’ll want payment for preparing a meal, but he does genuinely seem to be trying to be nice. He takes her down to the galley and sets out the food, gently taking her through an explanation of what he’s doing, despite the fact that she doesn’t understand and is even less interested.

Atticus has travelled plenty and lived on the dockside of London for even longer. He doesn’t just acquire knowledge for survival, but because it interests him. Lots of things interest Atticus, and cooking is one of them. Soon there’s a big pot bubbling happily away, and Atticus stirs it while Pearl sits on the edge of a crate of apples and giggles at him. Atticus has never been on a boat before with a pretty young prostitute who laughs (or at least pretends to laugh) at his bad jokes and he approves of the addition.

James Delaney stomps downstairs and stares at them both, watching as Atticus flavours the stew and Pearl’s giggles falter a little. “What are you doing?”

Atticus indicates the pot, the food, and the galley. “I’m teaching white mice to play the harmonica. What does it look like I’m doing?”

James fixes him with an unamused look, “You need to navigate.”

“We need to eat. I’d rather end up 50 miles west of the Azores on a full stomach than sail straight towards them eating nothing but dry biscuits.

James hesitates. Atticus thought that getting James Delaney his boat would calm him down a little, but instead he’s just as jumpy and spooked as ever. Maybe because Lorna is injured and Cholmondeley is fighting a raging infection. Maybe the dead sister in his past, or the uncertain world of his future. Or maybe for James Delaney this _is_ calm, and the best they’ll ever get.

James stares at him, and then nods as his thoughts reach their final conclusion. “You teach someone else to cook, or you teach someone else to navigate. Alright?”

Atticus glances at Pearl, whose stricken expression tells him everything he needs to know about how much she’s been listening to him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

There are a lot of people in the world, and Atticus has found the easiest way to deal with them is to categorise them like his animals and plants. There are discrete boxes for grumpy bastards who pay him (Delaney), pretty ladies who flirt with him (Pearl), or posh wankers who condescend at him (the currently fever-ridden Cholmondeley). The problem with Michael Godfrey is that he doesn’t fit into any of those boxes. Atticus knows that if Godfrey were a man he’d be looking at a slap, and if Godfrey were a women he’d be currently sitting on Atticus’s knee giggling over navigational charts.

But Godfrey is neither, and Atticus is struggling.

What Godfrey is, unfortunately, is the only person on deck with a passable knowledge of mathematics. He’s currently sitting on an empty crate pouring over navigational charts while Atticus paces up and down struggling to explain them. It’s a new skill for Godfrey and while he has the necessary background knowledge, actually understanding the star charts, the currents and courses of the water, and the mysterious connection between timekeeping and longitude is currently eluding him. It’s making Atticus frustrated and Godfrey nervous, neither of which improve the learning environment.

Eventually Godfrey puts down his pen in exasperation, rubs the bridge of his nose and snaps “Would it help matters if I put on a pair of trousers?”

Trousers have nothing to do with longitude but right now they seem to have everything to do with why he’s miserable and jumpy around every other man on board. They also seem to have a lot to do with the way Atticus is looking at him and talking to him.

Atticus hesitates, and Godfrey is suddenly very glad he said it. It pulls their frustrations away from everything they can’t control: the stars, the tides, James Delaney, and into the realm of things they can control, namely Godfrey’s outfit. In particular, they pull the conversation away from his failures as a navigator and towards the looming elephant in the room.

Atticus rolls his eyes, “Don’t be daft. I’ve been all round the world, you think you’re the first lad I’ve seen in a dress? They’re usually a few shades darker than you, that’s all.” He gives a smirk. “Wear what you like, you’re still a crap navigator.”

Godfrey gets his breathing under control, even if his heart-rate is skittering all over the place. “I know it’s not usual to have a woman on board. For the rest of the crew, would it be easier if I-“

“You’re not the only woman on board.” Atticus interrupts, and Godfrey knows that he’s missing the point on purpose.

“I’m the only woman on board in a wig.”

“A bad wig.”

Godfrey looks down at the charts again, “I know you don’t think much of me-“

“I don’t think anything of you.” Atticus waves his arms in exasperation. “I’ve only just fucking met you. Why do you give a shit?”

Atticus tries not to swear in front of women. For the purposes of letting out his frustration, he has decided Godfrey doesn’t count. Besides, Godfrey swears like a sailor under his breath when he thinks nobody is listening, and Atticus has been impressed at some of the more colourful phrases.

“Of course I give a – of course I care.” Godfrey snaps back.

“Do you think I care what you think of me?”

Godfrey hesitates. There are a few answers he could give to that, but suddenly he’s tired of constantly being on the defensive. He draws himself up and lets his eyes slide over the whole of Atticus’s body, up the muscle of his thigh, past the soft curve in his trousers, around his chest, up to where the first few buttons of his shirt have been broken away and been badly re-joined with twine. By the time he reaches Atticus’s face, the man is blushing and Godfrey feels a small exultant triumph.

“I don’t know.” He whispers softly, in a voice made of daggers in the darkness, “Do you?”

There’s silence for a moment as they both stare at each other in angry silence, and then Atticus sits down next to him, half pushing Godfrey off the crate before grabbing him around the waist. Godfrey makes a surprised little yelp as he suddenly lands in Atticus’s lap, “Exactly _what_ are you…”

“Shut up and look at the charts.” Atticus picks up the pen and hands it back, and now it’s Godfrey’s turn to blush at their close proximity. Atticus picks up the slide rule and pushes it into position, then nudges Godfrey’s hand towards it. “Draw the line. Go on. Then tell me _why_ you’ve drawn it, and why you’ve drawn it _there_.”

“Is this really the best way to teach someone how to navigate?” Godfrey manages in a strangled voice, trying to work out whether he’s marking up longitude, or latitude, or something else entirely.

“This is the best way to achieve what we fucking need to achieve.” Atticus replies, and somehow, Godfrey thinks he’s probably right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of how to tell Longitude at sea is a long and fascinating one which I've hand-waved a bit for this chapter. At some point I may actually properly look up standard practice for the early 1800s and write a follow-up chapter. This chapter isn't about longitude anyway, it's about comparing Atticus's relationship with Pearl to Atticus's relationship with Godfrey and in the process getting a sort of working relationship for Atticus and Godfrey.


	6. Indeed I have never...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew play a drinking game! It ends about as well as you'd expect.
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of sex acts, some implied nastiness in James Delaney's past, and lots of drunk giggling. The drinking game is a made-up 1800s version of "Never Have I Ever" which is played with the same rules and in basically the same way.

The game starts off demurely enough, with a few smart little glasses, some bottles of East India Company Rum and sensible, interesting little questions. Lorna starts it off with “Indeed I have never been to France” and even Robert manages a passable “Indeed I have never eaten a strawberry”. It’s hard to see when exactly the mood changes, whether it's Cholmondeley (“Indeed I have never pissed in the bath”), Pearl (“Indeed I have never tasted an arsehole”) or Atticus (“Indeed I have never fucked in the street”). Somewhere along the line, it turns from a gentle exploration of each other’s experiences into pure lurid alcohol-driven explicit acts.

On the whole, Lorna blames Atticus, and not just because the man is acting like a complete _letch_ , groping Goddy on one side and Pearl on the other. He’s drunk, but not as drunk as Cholmondeley, who is now in increasing danger of sliding off the bench completely. Robert’s propping him up on one side, his own glass thankfully mostly untouched.

Lorna’s tried several times to get Robert to leave, or at least cover his ears. He’s determined to stay.

“Indeed I have never…” Goddy begins, leaning into Atticus and giggling as Atticus’s hand disappears somewhere into his skirts, “Indeed I have never lain with a woman.”

Atticus laughs and drinks, Pearl giggles and drinks, Robert smirks and leaves his glass alone. Cholmondeley accidentally knocks his glass over and slurs, “You are trying to kill me.”

Lorna sighs, crossing her hands demurely in her lap. The rules of the game are simple, anyone who has performed the act takes a sip, or more likely a gulp, of their rum. Anyone who has not, refrains from drinking. To her disgust she’s the most sober at the table. Lorna has never thought of herself as prudish, but her exploits as an actress are struggling when matched against a man like Atticus, a whore, a Molly, and a debauched chemist. Not to mention sitting next to James Delaney, who despite drinking at almost every round is looking mostly unaffected, even slightly bored by the whole thing.

Goddy looks at Lorna expectantly and she racks her brain, trying to come up with something she’s never done that will elicit a range of responses from the rest of the table. “Indeed I have never … desired children.”

“Fuck you…” Cholmondeley slumps forward and grabs at his glass, sloshing more rum into it and taking a drink. Atticus laughs and takes a sip as well, whether he’s ever genuinely desired his own offspring or just wants to be drunk, Lorna can’t tell. Both Goddy and Pearl look horrified at the mere suggestion, and Robert–

Lorna suddenly regrets asking the question, because Robert is looking straight across at James Delaney.

James doesn’t drink.

“Fuck you…” Cholmondeley says again, but he spits it out, and Lorna knows he isn’t talking to her, “Just take a fucking drink. Would it kill you? You could’ve done it, could’ve just taken a fucking drink.”

Robert gently lays a hand on Cholmondeley’s uninjured shoulder and pats it briefly.

James is the next around the table, but the mood has soured a little. He stares around at them all, then gives a little shrug, “Indeed I have never set myself on fire.”

“Oh you fucker…” Cholmondeley grabs out at the glass again, “Hit him. Goddy, smack him one.”

Goddy gives a look of alarm, and Lorna is starting to regret suggesting the game at all. “What, why me?”

“Of all of us,” Cholmondeley manages to manoeuvre the rum at least partially into his mouth, “You’re the one he’s least likely to hit back.”

Pearl gives a nervous giggle, and Lorna wonders if Cholmondeley really thinks that’s true. She feels almost certain James would never hit her, or a heavily injured man. Would he hit Pearl, or Atticus? His own son?

“Of all of you.” James rumbles back, sounding amused for the first time since he’s started playing, “Goddy’s the most likely to enjoy it.”

Goddy looks away, slightly flushed, and Lorna’s just about to suggest maybe stopping the game, or moving onto cards, when Cholmondeley gets a hold of himself and manages to enunciate fairly clearly, “Indeed I have never been fucked up the arse.”

There’s a brief silence around the table, then Atticus grabs his glass and clinks it against Goddy’s and Pearl’s, “Bottoms up, ladies!” Pearl gives a shrieking giggle as his other hand grabs her somewhere and Goddy splutters into his rum as Atticus drinks along with them. Lorna gives her untouched glass a slightly disgusted look.

Cholmondeley is looking at James Delaney.

Slowly, the table falls into silence. James Delaney has a hand around his glass, but his eyes are somewhere else. Lorna feels like she’s tottering right at the brink of a precipice, where she wants to know but at the same time she very much doesn’t.

James takes a breath, and refocuses, and then says, hard and deliberately, “You, all of you, are a lot of _cunts_.”

His glass rolls to the floor and cracks, his chair scrapes back, and James Delaney, staggering more than usual, is out of the room, his footsteps creaking back to his bunk.

There’s a brief shocked silence and then Lorna manages a dry, “Game over?”

Pearl gives another nervous giggle and Atticus shakes his head with a grin, “Moody bugger, he is.”

“Do you think he’s alright?” Godfrey looks nervously at the cabin door, “If he … I mean...”

Cholmondeley groans and slides sideways, with Robert frantically trying to support him until he finally slumps to the floor, “Indeed I have never given a single solitary fuck about whether James Delaney is alright. Can someone help me up?”

The tension dissipates a little, and Goddy and Atticus hurry over to support him between them. Lorna fetches some water and they gently wipe down the non-bandaged side of his face, encouraging him to sip at the water when he can. And maybe it’s because the game is over, or maybe it’s because they’re all too drunk, but Lorna thinks there may even be another reason why nobody drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like a grown-up version of all those Harry Potter Spin The Bottle fanfics. Thank you for all the lovely reviews and I hope you enjoyed this addition!


	7. Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James goes for a swim and manages to alarm everyone, including himself.
> 
> For some reason this chapter came out in a different tense. Enjoy! It's later than most of the others, and set near the end of the voyage. They're about a week away from the Azores at this point.

The weather grew warmer as they headed south, the sky cleared to blue, the nights stifled with heat. The crew grew more familiar, more used to each other. Nobody really noticed anymore, that Cholmondeley’s hand was half wood and cloth, and his face scorched and burnt. Nobody cared if Godfrey wore light calico print dresses, or Pearl dried her under-things on the mainsail sheet. There were no arguments left that had not already happened and now the boat lazily rolled in stagnant windless air and Atticus talked longingly of land and fresh fruit.

Then James Delaney jumped off the boat.

Robert was the first to see; watching, head tilted, as the sleek line of his father’s body disappeared beneath the waves. For a second, he was content just to watch, then a fear gripped him, a panic, and a sudden hideous emptiness that he hadn’t been expecting. He grabbed at Cholmondeley’s good arm (by now he knew which one it was almost without thinking), “He jumped. In the water. He’s in the water.”

“Man overboard.” Cholmondeley shouted, not particularly loud, not particularly worried. Then he saw James’s bearded head bob up above the waves and his cry grew suddenly more frantic, “Man overboard! Shit! Someone grab a rope!”

Godfrey and Atticus turned from the prow, Lorna and Pearl rushed up from below. Godfrey’s hand flung up to his chest, a brief gasp of “Oh!” and then Atticus’s shirt was in his arms, and Atticus grabbed a rope and managed a passable dive into the sea. The boat was suddenly a surge of activity, as the crew on board tried to move it from an already slow drift to a complete stop. There was a brief look of bemused confusion on James Delaney’s face before Atticus landed on top of him.

Pearl gave a shriek that was less than half concern and a good deal more ghoulish excitement, “He’ll drown!”

“Selfish fucking shit!” Cholmondeley yelled at the two men now lost in some considerable splashing in the water. “Get back onto the fucking boat, if I have to live so do you.”

Lorna grabbed at the wrong end of a ratline and heaved it off the side of the boat, stepping back perturbed as three men leapt forward to grab it back. Godfrey rushed over to her, fluttering gently, “What is he doing, what is he _doing_ , is this about his sister, or his mother, or…”

Atticus managed to wrap a rope about James’s body, the two of them flailing their way to the side of the boat. James grabbed at the side with one arm, and then knocked Atticus’s shoulder with the other, “What the hell are you playing at?”

“Why did you jump in?” Atticus spluttered.

“Wanted a swim.”

“What!”

“It’s hot. I wanted a swim.”

Atticus stared at him, and then his mouth split into a laugh that seemed to the onlookers above to go on for far too long, “He’s only having a swim!”

“What?” Cholmondeley stared at them and then collapsed back down onto the deck. “Well fuck him. Let him swim. Let him drown.”

Robert stared back, disbelief in his eyes.

“Usually.” Atticus said slowly, as if speaking to a child, “We lower a sail into the water. We make a safe bit to swim in. We stop the ship first. You’re a strange man Mister Delaney.”

“Wanted a swim.” James muttered, but he had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed.

The sailors hauled on the rope and the two men climbed up the side of the ship. Atticus grabbed his dry shirt back and shook his head as James dripped onto the deck, “Look at you. Drowned rat. You could at least have taken your clothes off first.”

“Fucking give me that.” The embarrassment was even clearer now on James’s face as he snatched at the dry shirt, rubbing it over his wet hair. Atticus gave a grin.

“Did you just forget you was on a boat?”

* * *

James stalked down below as soon as he was halfway dry, and Lorna gave it a few minutes before coming down to join him. He was in his bunk, lying still and staring up at the ceiling, one hand reaching upwards with a finger lazily moving in spirals above his head.

He didn’t look up as Lorna entered the cabin, but he spoke, “Mrs. Delaney?”

There was a chair in the corner, nailed to the floor to stop it moving about in rough weather. Lorna gently settled down on it and waited.

After a few moments of peaceful silence, while the boat rocked and then sluggishly started to drift forwards, James looked at her. His eyes were clear, if still faintly embarrassed. “What do they all think of me then? Think I’m about to drown myself.”

“They don’t know what to think of you.” Lorna said carefully, “They never do.”

James gave an annoyed snort. “I wanted to swim, so I jumped in. Didn’t think the whole damn ship would try and jump in after me.”

“Didn’t you?”

There was a little more silence. Here below decks the voices from above could be heard, but not clear enough to make out what was being said. There was a brief laugh, and then a thump of wet rope on the deck.

“You came to England,” Lorna continued eventually, when James stayed silent, “For your sister.” She hesitated, but there was no move from the bed. “For your sister, and for your mother; for the memories of both of them. And now you have neither of them. Nobody knows what you want to do or why you want to do it.” Still silence, “Goddy and George, even Robert, they can’t be anywhere other than with you, not now. There’s too much of themselves given to it. Everyone who left England is tied into this, whether they like it or not.”

“And you?” James asked, still not looking at her.

Lorna remembered the Countess’s knife, pressed against her face. The cold murky water of the lake she crossed to see if James Delaney would be shot. Now it was her turn to be silent, staring at the man on the bed until his face finally turned to look at her.

“I’m not going to kill myself.”

“Are you telling me you’ve never tried?” She answered archly, but his face didn’t respond, didn’t twitch.

“I am not going to die, Mrs Delaney, because I am already dead.” James’s head turned back to face the ceiling and his eyes shut, the hand falling down to cover his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Knowledge of boating brought to you by my vague memories of sailing around in Norfolk and whatever stuck with me from the Master and Commander series.


End file.
